


The English Project

by Kyuss



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crushes, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-12-27 11:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21117959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyuss/pseuds/Kyuss
Summary: Simon Snow is a stereotype. He's an English nerd, a perfect student. Quiet. Gay. He's also crushing hard on the state's best soccer player, to the point of even being in love. But he knows he doesn't stand a chance.However, thanks to a week-long project, Simon is able to work with his Baz, his aforementioned crush, who acts suspiciously nice to Simon. Over the course of a week, they get stuck in a mansion, cuddle, talk, and form nothing more than a friendship—or so Simon thinks.





	The English Project

**Author's Note:**

> For a bit of background, Baz wasn't much of a bully to Simon prior to high school; he was more like a chastising, in-love perilla. Likewise, Baz and Simon are more like academic rivals, and even "rivals" should be taken lightly.
> 
> Some things that are also of note are the facts that they're American (sorry), and are seniors at Watford High School. 
> 
> Speaking of high school, I should explain the format of the schedule that I implemented. (It doesn’t have too much of an impact in the story, but it is mentioned a few times.) My own high school uses a system of A-days and B-days, which are basically your eight class periods split into two days. To put it simply, the days alternate alongside the same periods. (For example, my A-day always looks like this: Spanish II, Financial Literacy, World History, and Pre-AP Chemistry; they're periods 1-4.) I applied this system to Watford High.
> 
> And finally, it might be important to know that this is completely un-beta’d. This is my first piece of fanfiction, ever, so don't get your hopes up. (Translation: Brace yourself.) 
> 
> But please, do try and enjoy.

Mondays are shit. Or, more specifically, _ this _ Monday will be shit. I actually like school, so that's not the reason. It's just that since it's an A-day this Monday, I have English. And English means Baz Pitch—a future soccer star, and most importantly, my crush. 

\--- --- ---

I don't know when I realized I liked him. I think it was over time. (Well, that's obvious; of course it was over time, but you know what I mean.) We were "rivals" in middle school. It was full of biting remarks, comparing grades, and seeing who could ace a test first once a new grading period began. But that changed when we transitioned into high school.

Perhaps because we didn't share a class, the past animosity between us sort of dissipated over the course of our freshman year. The next year soon came, and before I knew it, I started paying attention to him more and more, but in a good way. I think that's when it began.

By our junior year, I had noticed his beautiful smile, complete with shiny, straight teeth. His sharp jawline caught my attention, too. I even noticed the (rather adorable) dimple that appeared on his left cheek when he smiled. 

My life had become even more complicated once this year began. We're only a few months in, but I'm still taken aback by him. This year, my revelations include his hands—complete with his elegant, nimble fingers—and those eyes. His beautiful, mysterious, grey eyes.

I also started attending his soccer games on a regular basis. (He plays almost every Friday now that it's late winter.) Prior to Baz, I didn't know legs could look nice as his, but I've found his legs are to be quite nice. Not too muscular, but nothing to be ashamed of.

Suffice to say, it's been a special kind of torture.

But if I were to say I don't understand why I like him, it would be a lie. Because I do understand. It's because Baz is Baz. The thing I don't understand is why I can't get over him; and by extension, why the gods have cursed me with falling in love with him.

\--- --- ---

Now, where was I? Oh, right. Shit Mondays. 

This particular Monday has actually started out nicely. Penny, my best friend, picked me up from my house, as usual.

"How has your morning been so far?" She asks, trying to make small talk.

"Same as always, Penny," I mutter.

"Did you get off, then?" She smirks.

"_Penelope Bunce_!" I yelp, embarrassed. "You— Christ!"

She laughs before speaking again. "That's what you get for not wanting to cooperate." 

"I was just sa—" 

"I know, Simon," she teases, glasses glinting in the sun. "You were saying that you woke up, thought about Basil, and ran out of time to get off."

I don't know why I ever told her that I liked Baz. I let it slip that I liked someone, and she was sweetly relentless. At least, as sweet as one can be while peppering their best friend with questions. 

I had came out to her on a night of stargazing, something we've picked up over the past few years. Thankfully, she took it well. To my horror, she didn't seem surprised when confessed that it was _Baz_. 

I'm reliving this moment when Penny pinches me. "Ow!" I huff. "What was that for?"

"You weren't listening to me," she says.

"I was thinking."

"Thinking about Baz?" 

If she wasn't the one driving, I would give her a friendly punch in the arm. (I flick her instead.) (At a red light, because I'm nice.)

\--- --- ---

When we get to school, Penny drops me off before heading off to hell. (It's also known as the parking lot, but same difference, right?) Because I'm considerate, I wait, mindlessly messing around on my phone while I wait for Penny to park her Prius.

Unfortunately, what seems to be seconds after I was dropped off, I see the man himself—fucking _ Baz_—coming from the parking lot. _ Shit_, I think to myself. I have no place to go.

Once he reaches me, he stops. And stays there.

"Hello, Snow," he says. I swear I can hear him grinning, so I slowly look up. He's not grinning, per se. He's actually beaming. "How's your morning?"

I blush, remembering the conversation I had earlier with Penny. "Um… fine. Just fine," I manage. 

"Good. Walk with me?" He asks, still beaming. Why is he smiling so much? He's typically not this friendly to me. 

"I'm actually waiting for Pe—" 

"Bunce?" He interrupts, "She'll catch up. C'mon." And just like that, he's off, not even checking behind him to see if I'm actually following.

I hesitate, looking back in time to see Penny exiting the parking lot, scurrying to get to me. Well, I decide, I might as well. (Sorry, Penny, but this is what you get.)

"Slow down, Baz," I try, attempting to get in line with his long strides. I do eventually catch up to him, although it's harder than I would like to admit.

\--- --- ---

Baz and I end up talking about English. I'm not complaining, considering that it's my best and favorite subject, but it's still weird. You see, Baz never talks to me outside of class. (In class, he's competitive, but not cruel—his teammates can be sometimes, though. I tend to avoid them entirely.) 

"So, how was Ms. Possibelf's lecture last Thursday?" He asks. 

It takes me a second to answer. "Well, it was the third time we discussed _ Beowulf _ in the past three classes," I try.

He smirks. "Oh? You didn't like the sword ramble?" I know you have a fascination with them."

How does he know about that? I don't remember ever mentioning anything about swords. I notice his confused expression before I realize that I said the first part out loud. Before I can correct myself, he interjects.

"Your Twitter, of course." (He knows my Twitter?) "I've noticed you don't post frequently, but you usually have something interesting to report on your latest sword antique."

"Oh. Thanks, I guess. I didn't know that you knew I had a Twitter."

"Snow, you practically give your username away." He stops to open the door for me—how sweet—before picking up where he left off, "I've heard you mention your Instagram, Twitter, hell, even your Tik-Tok once."

"Oh… sor—"

"Don't be sorry, Snow." We're almost in the lunchroom now. "I don't mind."

And with that, he pats my shoulder, grumbles out a goodbye, and starts walking towards his friends, Dev and Niall. 

"Simon! Hold up, you!" I turn around. It's Penny. "Why didn't you wait?" She questions, her face a mass of red hue.

Finally arriving at our table, I utter out a response, "I, uh… r-ran into Baz." Good job, Simon.

She smiles. (Oh no.) "Well, isn't that lovely," she drawls, slapping me on the back. Over my complaint, she continues, "Next time, let me in the conversation with your crush, or you're paying for gas." 

\--- --- ---

It's been a long day. First, a slow, achingly long lesson in Chemistry before Precalculus, my hardest class of the day. With my third period out of the way, I finally get to end my day in English. With Baz. (And Penny, but that's besides the point.)

When I finally trudge into the classroom, having to walk across campus, I settle down in the second row next to Penny, just diagonal from Baz. 

For what it's worth, I would rather avoid sitting behind him. However, on the first day of school, Dev and Niall grabbed the final two seats, much to my dismay. I couldn't help but noticing that Baz seemed livid at the pair of them; it was almost like he was annoyed.

Once our passing period is over, Ms. Possibelf starts teaching. "Today, I will pair you up for a project. And if you remember, I mentioned that we were going to be doing a project last week."

She pauses, waits an extra second for the groaning to end, and continues. "As I was saying, this will be a group project." Chairs squeal. "However, _ I _ will be selecting your groups as well as your topics. No questions asked."

She tries to elaborate, but she has to pause, waiting for the tremor of collective groans to end. (Personally, I don't mind. I'll end up doing most of the work anyway.)

Oh, she's talking again. "Gareth, Jane. You'll be working together. Niall and Jacob, you too." She continues listing the names as I rest my eyes, making sure to keep my ears ready for my name. As she drones on, I realize that my options are dwindling; now, there's only another five people left: Ian, Lucas, Melissa, Dev, and most importantly, _ Baz. _

Lucas and Melissa are then paired together, leaving only four of us left. And then disaster strikes. 

"Ian and Dev, you will work together," Ms. Possibelf pauses, and turns to me. "That leaves you two boys. I'm expecting the best from you, Simon." She looks at Baz. "And from you as well, Baz."

I sneak a glance at him. He's beaming at me.

_ Shit_.

\--- --- ---

Luckily for me, we don't get too far into the project. 

Unluckily for me, we don't get too far into the project, which means it's up to us to figure out how to finish it before Friday's deadline. Because of a possible field trip I may have on Wednesday, and since Baz has after-school practice every day, we have to squeeze out a schedule. Through texts—I got his number, go me—we're able to schedule times to meet up.

He's going to have practice after school, and will shower there before heading off to my house around 5:30. Hopefully, we can make a dent in our work. That way, we won't have to do this every night. 

At the same time, though, I want to procrastinate for once in my life; the less work we do, the longer I get to hang out with him. But I wouldn't do that to him. He shouldn't have to go to my house; he shouldn't be putting the extra time into his day just to finish an English project with me. He deserves more.

\--- --- ---

It's 5:34 when I hear the knock. It takes about 30 seconds of me stumbling out of my room to answer the door. (Elegance is not my forte, alright?)

Finally, I get to the door. I open it, greeted by the sight of Baz and his still drying (not to mention gorgeous) hair. I don't know how I manage to squeak, "Hello."

"Hi, Snow. May I come in?" He asks cheekily.

I open the door, beckoning to him come inside. "Why yes, your majesty," I say, trying my hand at humor.

To my delight, he does indeed let out a small, breathy laugh before coming in. When he prances in, and awkwardly settles down in my living room, I remember to try to be a good host. I make a beeline to the kitchen, asking him if he wants any food.

"I would, actually," he replies. "I'm famished."

I'm currently in the fridge now, so I make sure to raise my voice. "Well, we don't have much. Are crackers and cheese sandwiches good? Ebb made quite a bit last night before she left."

It takes a few seconds for him to reply. I hear some shuffling, realizing he's coming behind me. "That would lovely, he starts, looking unsure, "I hope you don't mind me asking, but who's Ebb?"

"She's my foster mom."

His face falls. "Oh…. I'm sorry, I didn't know." Shit. He's pitying me.

I desperately try to remove that pity from his face, putting on a smile. "Don't feel bad, it's fine," I try. I finally gather up the sandwiches before continuing. "I've had years to cope, y'know? Ebb is wonderful, too."

His face relaxes, though still shows remorse. "Good. My mom died when I was younger, so I understand. I'm sure you've heard."

What? "I actually didn't. Who's that, uh, lady that always cheers you on at soccer, then? The one with that silver streak in her hair?"

He scoffs. "_Lady_? That's my aunt, Fiona. And let me tell you, she is no lady."

“Ah. Sorry about that”

“No, it’s fine,” he insists. “How could you tell the difference anyway?”

We fall into silence, shifting our focus to destroying the sandwiches. (Or Baz is anyway. I think he's normally a slow eater, but today? Not so much.)

About five minutes later, we finally start our project and fall into a rhythm; Baz researches and feeds me information while I set up our presentation, paraphrasing factoids and customizing our slide show. It's comfortable. 

As we're working, I sneak several looks at Baz, taking him in. His hair is finally dry, framing his face in waves. He's wearing a thin t-shirt, too; it's just a normal black shirt, but they highlight his collarbones just right. His legs are the most painful—or brilliant?—things to look at, though. He's ditched the jeans that he normally wears in favor of athletic shorts, perhaps to relax after playing ruthless soccer. While they're not tight pants, there's something about his legs. I never got _ that _ kind of muscle in my calves when I played. (I'm glad he did.)

Over the next few hours, we eventually tire ourselves out. Baz leaves around 8:45, saying he's starting to feel a bit off, and exits the house with a goodbye. I can't help but peering out my window, watching him as he walks to his green Mustang.

I think we still have plenty of work to do, but we should be set for the rest of the week. If nothing happens, anyway.

\--- --- ---

Something happened.

It's Tuesday, and since yesterday was an A-day, today is a B-day. I rarely see him on B-days, but since we share the same lunch period, I typically notice him talking with his friends. (He is, in fact, quite hard to ignore.)

As lunch passes, I wait for him to show up. He doesn't.

To my knowledge, Baz hasn't missed a single class period due to sickness; disregarding soccer, he almost never misses a class. It's just my luck, I think to myself.

\--- --- ---

After school, I get a text. I'm almost at my bus stop, so I wait to check it.

Once I'm dropped off and almost home, I finally go to check my text messages. I'm pleasantly surprised to see it's Baz. 

_ Herll, Snow. I woke up this morning sick. Havent got any better. I was just letting you know that i’m not going to be able to work with you tnight. Maybe Wednesday though _

_ Of course_, I type out, standing outside my door. _Hope you feel better, Baz._

I take that as the end of the conversation, and go to open the door. Immediately after it's opened, I'm barraged with greetings and before I know it, I’m being smothered in Ebb's warm embrace.

"Simon!" She shrieks with a toothy grin.

I smile, wrapping my arms around her. "Hi, Ebb. Didn't know you were going to be back so soon." (Ebb had been visiting her estranged brother for the weekend. I guess things worked out quicker than she anticipated.)

"Wasn't planning on it, that's for sure," she adds while clapping my back, releasing me. "Nico's doing just fine. Didn’t need me to hang around."

We chat for a few minutes, each of us filling the other in. Eventually, I mention my project with Baz.

"Baz. Isn't that the boy you like?" She questions.

I play with my curls. "Yeah," I mutter. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm just curious."

“I know Ebb,” I say, blushing. 

She reaches over the table, ruffling my hair. “I’m just fulfilling my duty as your mother,” she says rather sweetly. 

After a few more minutes of talking, I excuse myself, heading to my room in hopes of getting my homework done. I’m not planning on doing any of the English project; no, once Baz gets better, we’ll have a couple days to work on it. Hopefully he gets better soon, though. I don’t like the idea of him being sick.

I fall into my bed, face first, thinking about how angsty one person can get.

\--- --- ---

To my dismay, Baz is once again absent on Wednesday. It’s understandable, really—it doesn’t take a day to get better—but it leaves me in a state of pity. And disappointment, I admit to myself. 

I trudge through the day, finding new ways to not think about Baz. Thankfully, A-days typically go fast for me, especially now that I don’t have to spend most of English subtly glancing at Baz. (He’s captivating, shove off.) 

The whole class is a mess, to be honest; there was a substitute, so everyone—well, everyone besides me, Penny, and a few school-focused civilized students—just goofed off. 

In the end, however, I do survive English. Barely, mind you, but I at least got some work done on the presentation. That’s something, right?

I head home, riding the bus to my busy street, and wait for the (hopefully) inevitable texts from Baz.

\--- --- ---

To my delight, Baz’s text chain does eventually come. Similarly to yesterday, the texts have atrocious grammar and are rather sloppy, which must mean Baz is still somewhat sick. 

_ do you want to come over to me house tonight? I still feel a bit off, but some meds is helping a little bit _

_ That sounds good_, I say, choosing my next works cheekily. _ By the way, when you say "house," don’t you mean your castle? _

_ It’s more of a small mansion, but sure _

_ Couldn’t help myself, sorry. _ Before I hit ‘Send,’ I make sure to clarity the time. _ Do you want me over there at 5:30, 6:00, or…? _

_ 5:30 is fine Snow. see you then _

I smile, closing my messages before finding Ebb.

I don’t have to look much. She’s reading a newspaper at the dinner table, eating a few Oreos with a cup of goal milk to her right. 

I clear my throat, try to get her attention. “Uh, Ebb?” 

When she looks at me, her face is still stuffed with cookie. “Yef, Fimon?”

I smile at her before elaborating, “Yeah, I need to be at Baz’s by about 5:30.”

She swallows, taking a swig of milk to help down the Oreos. “You better get going then. It’s almost 5:15, isn’t?”

“Yeah, it— Wait,” I pause, thinking for a second. “Did you say ‘_you_' better get going?’”

She nods, replying, “Mm-hmm. Just take care of her.” (The ‘her’ she refers to is her Chevy Blazer; it’s an old, rusty machine that she lovingly calls Nat.)

I scoff, albeit jokingly. "Take care of her? Are you implying that I’ll wreck her?"

She smiles, "I just want you to be careful." She fishes out her keys, handing them to me. "It might storm later. Make sure to drive safely."

I take the keys, leaning over the table to kiss her forehead. “I will.”

\--- --- ---

Putting the key in the ignition, I text Baz, asking him for his address. It's only a minute before he responds:

_ Here it is, Snowy. Don't be latte ;) _

Okay, then. From that text alone, I can conclude that he's clearly delirious. As I back out of our small driveway, I wonder just how much work can the pair of us—more like just me—actually accomplish before I head home. Probably not a lot.

\--- --- ---

Pulling into the Pitch estate—a modest, giant mansion, of course—leaves me with an odd sense of dread and vulnerability. (The place is just massive; hell, even the driveway is thrice as long as mine.) I'm almost scared to get out when I finally bring Ebb's crappy Chevrolet to a halt.

I sigh, cutting off the engine. I gather my backpack and phone, and make sure to take out the keys.

While walking up the path, I hear faint shouting. Before I can even knock, the door is yanked open. To my surprise, it's not some butler or housekeeper, but Baz. 

A very pale, sickly-looking, smiling Baz.

I hear a voice coming from behind him. "Mr. Pitch, you're sick. Get away from the door. I'm not paid to allow you to stumble your way down flights of stairs." 

"You're here," Baz proclaims, ignoring what I can only assume is his housekeeper.

I blink. "Um… yeah, yeah, I am." I fiddle on my feet before asking, "Can I come in?"

"Duh." Wow. He's really out if it.

I step inside, smiling apologetically at the housekeeper. In doing so, I lose Baz, but just for a few moments. (He's uncharacteristically loud, so I don't miss the loud thumps of his feet on the stairs.) I shake my head before following him.

This is going to be a long night.

\--- --- ---

It takes me a little longer to find Baz's room than I would like to admit. As I'm getting the nerves to call out his name, I hear him. "_Siiimon_." I turn, taken aback when I see him. Or his face, rather.

His door is cracked open, leaving just enough space for a Baz-sized head to poke through.

I blink stupidity at him (again). "Yeah?"

"Come on. We don't have all day."

His head disappears, leaving me to awkwardly walk over, open the door, and walk into his r—

Well, I would call it a room, but that would be shaming all other rooms. It is that massive. There's tons of open space, save for a bed, a small couch, a chest, and a nightstand. 

Baz, bless his heart, is staring at me wide-eyed, his slim frame already perched on his bed. His laptop is on his bed as well, open and prime for research. Oddly enough, I don't really see Baz being capable of researching when he's like… _ this_.

His clothes are insanely rumpled, for one. If not for his sickly complexion tonight, I would assume he's feeling off simply considering that. His clothes are always perfectly manicured—wait, no, that's the wrong word. His clothes are always… in order? I don't know. Baz's eyes on me is making me a bit nervous. A good kind of nervous, but nervous nonetheless.

Not knowing what to do, I walk over and plop down on the floor, setting down my stuff and rifling through my backpack to find my laptop. I eventually find it, but as I'm getting it ready, Baz decides to open his mouth.

"Hi," he drawls. "By the way, I'm on every medicine in the book, so I'm a bit loopy." He giggles.

He catches me off guard with his giggle—who giggles past age eight, anyway?—but I still manage a slick, "You already said that through texts, but I can definitely see that now."

He giggles at that. 

A few beats pass, and I decide to move along with the project. "All right, um…. Did you want to do the same thing that we did yesterday?" I pause, taking in his blank stare. "Like do you want me to do the slideshow while you…. Well, while you jot down notes?"

Baz lazily shrugs in response.

"You want to research?"

He shrugs again.

Okay then.

\--- --- ---

About half an hour later, I sigh, rubbing my eyes, now getting tired after reading through my third article of the evening. A loud rumble of thunder takes me out of stupor; it's got significantly darker outside within the past 10 minutes or so. The air outside is electric, ridden with lightning bolts. 

If I was paying any sort of attention, the weather outside would scare me. Fortunately, Baz exists, and is acting very un-Baz-like, so all of my focus is on him.

Normally, Baz is always concentrated, pulling his brow into a crease, mouth pinched in a line, and all movements precise and calculated. But right now, he's a mess. For one, his hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail—which is weird, considering he only wears his hair like that if he's playing soccer—and lacks its visual smoothness. His right leg is twitchy, and he can't keep his eyes on his screen for more than a minute.

It's odd, seeing Baz like this. So untidy. Not in control of himself. 

Yesterday, he was relaxing because of soccer; he needed to stretch, to remove any tension and keep his body from going sore. But right now it's different. It's almost like a filter has been removed.

Baz interjects my inner thoughts with a whine. "Simon," he starts, looking me straight in the eyes. "We have until Friday to turn this in."

Great observation, Baz. "Yeah? That's what Miss Possibelf said." 

"Then why are we doing it today?" 

I shift my complete focus on him, turning away from my laptop. "We're doing this so we can get good grades and fill our classmates with shame."

He ponders. Cute. "Right. I'm bored, though." He gives me a wide-eyed look. (He really can't help himself, huh?)

"It's been what, maybe 30 or 40 minutes since we started? C'mon, Baz, you're better than that." (He really is.)

If he heard me, he doesn't show it. Instead, he stubbornly keeps his pouty stare pointed at me.

I fold. "All right. We're only stopping this because you're clearly not paying attention," I stand up, straightening my back, and reach for my backpack. "But this means we'll have to get to work tomorrow."

Suddenly, there's a _ crack! _ outside Baz's window. I startle, relaxing my weak grasp on my backpack. Baz scurries over to the window, unafraid, and peers into his front yard. "Yikes."

I'm a bit worried. "Baz?" I question. "Yikes, what?"

"Do you have any extra clothes?" He says with a tone lacking his previous whine. 

"'Course not. Why?"

"It's just," he waves his arm frantically at me, "come here and look."

I do, albeit slowly. I stop at the window, and look at him, unsure of what to do. He looks at me before cocking his head towards the window, indicating to look outside. I peer out the window and promptly make my own squeal.

His driveway is cut off by a fallen tree. 

As capable as Ebb's truck is, I'm not sure I want to test its strength against a tree. Which means that I might be stuck here for at least the night. 

_ Fuck_.

\--- --- ---

"Hi, Ebb," I say into the phone. "A tree fell down on Baz's driveway. I'll see you tomorrow night, hopefully, okay? Love you, Ebb. Bye." I end the voicemail as I turn to Baz. "So…. How is this going to work?"

He blinks stupidly before letting out a meek, "What do you mean?" 

"Where am I going to sleep?

"In my bed, obviously," he says, completely oblivious to my inner-self crumbling. "You could wear my pajamas too, I guess. If you want."

My face burns. "Oh," I squeak, "that might be my only option, to be honest." I still need one more answer, though. Christ, this is going to be embarrassing. "Also, I need to take a shower, so can—"

"Sure."

"—I use…. Oh."

A beat passes. Then another. And another. "It's settled then," I grumble. 

\--- --- ---

I'm standing in Baz Pitch's en suite, wrapped in a fluffy blue towel, trying to swallow my pride and ask Baz for his clothes. I really should've got them before I showered, but I was too busy thinking about the fact that I was about to take a shower in _ Baz Pitch's en suite_. 

I sigh, making sure to secure the towel around my waist. When I open the door, I find myself in the gaze of a flushed Baz. He drops a shirt and worn shorts into my arms.

"Use my bathroom to change. Then we'll just kill time before sleeping. A board game or something,” he informs me, scampering—he fucking _ scampers_—off to his bed. 

I let out a meek acknowledgment before heading back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. Once I put the pajamas on, I nervously step into his room. I walk over to Baz, who's now seated on his floor with a game of _ Sorry! _ already set up.

"You really weren't kidding about the board games, were you?" I mumble, just quiet enough for Baz not to hear me. Still, the door opening alerts him to my presence, the corners of his mouth perking up as he looks up.

"Nice shirt," he says.

Ha. "I hope you think it's nice. It's your shirt, after all."

"Yeah. That's why it looks good on you," he says, almost sheepishly. He clears his throat before continuing. "Anyway, _ Sorry! _ is up and ready to play. Prepare to get wrecked."

\--- --- ---

Baz is very competitive at board games. I know I should've expected this—he plays soccer, so of course he's going to be competitive, Simon—but I just didn't. We played a round of _Sorry! _before he promptly beat me in _Operation _in about 5 minutes. Then, after a short snack break, he ravaged me in _Battleship_. Utterly _ravaged_ me. 

To put it simply, he's kept his word—he's wrecking my ass.

I'm fine with it though. Once we ended our first game of _ Battleship_, I asked if we could have a rematch before bed. But this time, I had a plan: Rather than actually playing, I more or less wanted to just focus on him.

It's really not my fault that I can't help watching him. He's just adorable when he plays. This brings out what I like to call "Competitive Baz." (The name's a work in progress, okay?)

Competitive Baz, simply put, is both endearing and terrifying to meet. He'll pull his upper lip into his mouth, biting on it; he blows his hair out of his face now that it's been released from his previous ponytail; he gleams mischievously when he knows he's nailed one of my ship's coordinates; and the list goes on. It's a spectacle.

I almost miss it when he sinks my final battleship. Fortunately, his reaction isn't subtle. He shouts out a "Take that, you sod!" followed by a mumble of "Sorry, Snow, you're not a sod." 

Once I utter out my own mumble, acknowledging his "apology," he starts gathering up the board game, ultimately stacking it on top of both _Sorry!_ and _Operation, _ending our… well, our _eventful_ journey through board games. (This also ends the reign of Competitive Baz, which is a real shame. Such a shame, indeed.)

Baz suddenly claps his hands together, startling me and my thinking process. "Well then," he says, "are you ready for bed?"

Oh. I forgot about that. "Are you sure you want me sleeping in your bed? You know, with you being sick and all?"

He shakes his head violently. "I don’t think I’m contagious. And with the amount of time you've spent around me already, you would already be sick."

I want to protest, but I am Baz's guest, and I have a feeling Baz is even more stubborn when he's sick—or, in his terms, under the weather. I can survive one night, right?

\--- --- ---

Roughly 30 minutes later, at about 10:15, Baz has been in the shower for 20 minutes when I start preparing to go to bed. He already lent me an unused toothbrush, but I wait to use it. (For both of our sakes of course; as odd as Baz must've felt today, I think I would feel worse if I walked in on him.)

I'm almost ready when I hear the shower _ finally _ turn off. A few more minutes pass, and I can hear Baz's feet padding the bathroom floor. Eventually**, **he steps out, clad in only large shorts and a faded, completely worn t-shirt. This makes matters worse for me, for his shirt is clinging to his damp body.

I sit there, trying not to gawk, but I really can't help myself. (If your crush stepped out of the shower with the thinnest clothes money can buy, how could you not gawk? Precisely.)

Baz looks at me, causing my wonderings to come to a screeching halt. "Well, Simon. Are you ready?”

“Ready to what? Sleep?”

“What else?”

I make a rather embarrassing sound in my throat. (If Baz notices, he doesn't mention it.) "Not really, no."

His posture slumps, shoulders falling into his body. I try not to read into that. "No?"

"W-well yes, but—"

"So we're fine then," he proclaims, effectively ending the conversation. After a few tense seconds, though, he must notice my discomfort. He softens his voice and makes sure to apply eye contact again before speaking. "If you want, I can sleep somewhere else," he says. "Whatever makes you feel the most comfortable." 

This has got to be the most embarrassing thing in my very uneventful life. "No, sleep in here. I'm fine," I insist. “It's just that I've never really slept with anyone before."

Baz blinks, thinks, and lets out a wicked smile. "Oh?"

It takes me a second to think about what I said. Shit. "I-I meant sleeping with someone in the same bed. Obviously." _ Fuck_ _ me_, this is awful.

He gives me a soft jab in the shoulder. "_Obviously_."

I let out a shaky sigh, an attempt to calm my nerves. "I'll just go brush my teeth," I manage before getting up.

"I'll be in bed," I hear him say behind me. After a brief pause, I hear him continue. "Snow?"

I turn around. "Yeah?"

Baz has my (his) toothbrush. "Don't forget this." He tosses it to me.

I catch it, making sure to quietly thank him before heading into the bathroom. I shut the door, and look around the room for the toothpaste. After locating it, and squeezing some onto my toothbrush, I wonder about what the rest of the night will entail.

\--- --- ---

Once I'm done having a brief existential crisis, I slide into Baz's bed, trying not to bother his dozing form. The bed's cold, I think to myself. It makes sense, since it's still wet and miserable outside, but it's almost comfortably cold. (There's nothing like a nice chill. I'm almost always too warm, so I embrace it.)

I snuggle into the covers, pulling the comforter up to my shoulders. And I fall into a deep sleep.

Typically, and I'll be the first to admit this, waking up is miserable for me. On most mornings, I'm too warm; even with a fan pointed at me on full blast, I'll wake up in tangled sheets, body covered in a sheen of stale sweat. It's quite disgusting.

So, with this in mind, imagine my surprise when I wake up in the morning feeling cold. And _ hot damn_, this cold feeling is so _ heavenly_. It takes me a few moments to realize why I feel this way—so wonderfully cold, that is. 

It's because I'm wrapped around a cold, tight body. 

No, I’m wrapped around a person. And not just any person; I’m wrapped around _ Baz bloody Pitch. _

In fact, our bodies are intertwined. His hair is falling in my face. His leg is slotted between mine, too, with shorter frame is tucked into his slimmer one. And holy shit, this might be the greatest feeling in the world. 

Unfortunately, all great feelings must come to an end. Still, I make sure to bask in this glory—the glory one receives when cuddling with their crush—before trying to get up. Similarly to last night, I don't want to interrupt Baz's sleep, so I make sure to be extra careful while extracting myself from his body's grasp.

As I'm trying to unslot our legs, however, Baz suddenly stirs, mumbling incoherently before throwing an arm (!) over me. He opens his bleary and gorgeous grey eyes. "Hi," he says, his voice raspy with sleep, “how do you do?"

We're face to face, so I don't have any other place to look but those eyes. "Um…" I trail off.

"Shhh. Forget I asked. Just go back to sleep."

And Christ, as much as I want to sleep—and return into Baz's cocoon—I remember it's Thursday. I crane my neck over Baz, peering over him to get a view of his alarm clock. According to the clock, it's 8:36. 

School starts at 8:50, I remind myself.

Fucking hell, school starts in 14 minutes. "Fuck!" I yell.

Understandably, Baz is startled when I shout in his ear, and even more so once I start untangling myself from him. He lets out a mewl before asking, "What in the hell are doing, Snow?"

I let out a grunt as if the answer's obvious. "School!"

"Snow," I faintly hear. I don't answer, though; I'm too busy looking for yesterday's clothes. "Snow. Snow, are you listening to me?" I distantly hear him pause before I hear it, quiet yet stern. "_Simon_."

That gets my attention. "What?" I say, swiveling my head around to his direction.

"School is canceled."

"When did you—"

"I woke up earlier, of course. A little bit before eight o'clock. Checked my phone messages, like you should've," he mumbles. "Storm took out a few power lines. Knocked over some trees, too," he says, pausing as he claps the empty space next to him. "Now, c'mere, and fucking cuddle with me. It's freezing." And with that, Baz plops his head back onto the pillow, seemingly out instantly.

I stare, partly because I'm shocked that he's already asleep again, and partly because I come to a realization: If he had been up earlier, that would mean he knew we were cuddling. Likewise, that means he was fine with it; if he hadn't, he could've just removed myself from him, or himself from me.

"Simon." Oh. I guess he's not asleep after all. "Don't make me say it again, you twat."

There's the Baz I know. He must be feeling better, I think, before eventually folding myself back into Baz's cold embrace. 

It's awkward to get into, but it's worth it once I'm surrounded by cold, long limbs.

\--- --- ---

We don't wake up until a quarter till 11:00. (Rather, Baz doesn't get up until then, but since he can hardly move without waking me, he took the extra mile and woke me up.) (How considerate.)

While Baz goes to the bathroom, I try and navigate myself to the kitchen. I had intended to ask Baz, but he had locked himself in the ensuite by the time my brain was working and functional. The fact of talking through a bathroom door didn't really appeal to me, so I decided to just wing it.

I walk down the stairs, keeping my gaze down, paying no attention to what's in front of me. Unfortunately, I don't realize that there's someone at the bottom until it's nearly too late. I narrowly avoid them, briefly losing my balance before elegant hands catch me.

"Sorry, Simon. I didn't notice you coming down."

I look up, failing to recognize the voice. It's a lady, but I don’t think it’s the infamous Aunt Fiona Baz has mentioned. "No, it's my fault. I should've been paying attention to where I was going." I squirm, and she releases me from her soft grasp. "Um… Not to soundimpolite, but who are you?”

"Oh. I'm Daphne, Malcolm's wife," she pauses. "Baz's stepmother."

"Well, it's nice to meet you… I guess." Wow, Simon. Way to be rude. "But how do you know my name?" I tentatively ask again.

Her eyes twinkle. "How could I not? Baz loves to talk about you." She smiles. "He really likes you. Just don't have too much fun," and she winks.

Well that's nice to know. Wait, what was that last part? And did she _ wink_? "I hope you don't mind me asking—"

"Of course."

"—but what do you mean by not having 'too much fun?’"

She smiles warmly. "In the future, just make sure to keep your… sounds of pleasure quiet, please. You two made quite the racket this morning." And with that, she murmurs "Have a good breakfast" before continuing upstairs.

I blink, thinking for a second. _ Sounds of pleasure_? What does that m—oh. _ Oh_. I turn around to correct her, to mention that we did not, in fact, make 'sounds of pleasure.' Instead, I end up face to face with a yawning Baz.

"What was that about?" He asks.

I avert my eyes, shifting my focus to look anywhere but at him. "It's not important."

He cocks his head. "You're blushing. What was it?"

I respond once I realize that I’m not getting out of this. "She, uh, thinks we fucked," I mumble.

He guffaws. "Hmm. You did make quite a lot of noise this morning."

The audacity of this boy, I think to myself. (He'll kill me one day with it, I swear.) I give him a weak stink-eye. "Seriously?"

Baz just shrugs, and shimmies past me, presumably heading to eat breakfast. I shake my head in a vain attempt to clear my mind, and soon follow him. 

\--- --- ---

While eating, I make another realization; Baz didn't seem too bothered by the idea of us having sex. Most teenage boys would scoff or shy away from the sheer mention of gay sex. Baz, meanwhile, casually joked about it before going to his kitchen, almost like it was routine. I can't tell if that's a display of confidence or just a misunderstanding.

Whatever the case may be, however, I don't dwell on it for too long. Breakfast helps me shift my thoughts, putting the idea in the back of my mind.

Baz is still eating when I finish, but I go back upstairs to his room. After I change out of his pajamas and into my clothes from the other day, there’s not much to do, and I really don’t want to be around Daphne after that awkward conversation. (It doesn’t help that Baz’s aunt came over for a brief time; she somehow caught wind of it and was relentless in sexual innuendos.)

I play on my phone while waiting for Baz. I can’t play for too long, though—my phone’s at 38% now, and I didn’t bring a charger—and I end up turning it off after a few minutes.

Luckily, it doesn’t take Baz that long to finish up. I’m taking my laptop out again when he waltzes in. “Are you going to work?” He asks incredulously.

I pause, still holding it. “Well, yeah. What else are we going to do?”

He looks as if I’ve insulted him. “Anything but _ that_. We have all day to work on our project.”

“What do you want us to do, then?”

He shrugs. “We could talk.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Like I said, we have all day.”

“You said that when you were talking about work—”

“Nevermind what I was talking about, Snow,” he interrupts. “That’s not the point, and you know it.” He sits down, looking at me. “Let’s talk.”

\--- --- ---

At first, it’s awkward. Even after years of knowing each other, and being at each other’s heels—mostly academically, but still—we surprisingly don’t know much about one another. It takes a few questions to get the conversation going, as it’s difficult to find a middle ground.

After a few failed attempts to find a topic, we finally hit on something.

“Tell me about your family,” I say.

His face lights up like a Christmas tree (it’s adorable). “Oh. That’s a wonderful topic,” he starts, thinking of a response. “Well, you know about mother”—I give him an apologetic look—"and you’ve met my stepmother, Daphne. She’s lovely.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes, yes it is,” he pauses. “She’s probably the best stepmom I could ask for.” He clears his throat before continuing. “My father isn’t. He has his moments, but he can be pretty shitty.”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how—I mean, how is he ‘shiity’?”

He lets out a long sigh. “For one, he doesn’t like it that I play sports. He insists that nothing will come of it. He hates that I’m gay, too.”

Unable to hold it in, I squeak. “You’re _ gay_!?”

He nods before narrowing his eyes at me. “You have a problem with that? I wouldn’t have pegged you as the homophobic type.”

“N-no.” I frantically manage. “No, it’s just….”

“Just what?”

I glance sheepishly at him. “It’s just I wasn’t expecting you to be gay.”

His face relaxes as he raises his eyebrows, “Stereotype much, Snow?”

Fuck. This is getting worse by the second. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just haven’t ever—Well, I’ve never seen you take interest in a guy.” (Or a girl for that matter, come to think of it.) (Christ, I’m a fucking moron.) I put my head in my hands. “I’m sorry.”

A few beats pass before I feel a cold hand on my shoulder. I look up. “I didn’t mean to be so condescending." Baz says, his face void of the tension he showed before. "I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t a bigot.”

I snort. “I’m not a bigot. I’m quite the opposite.”

“The opposite of what? Being bigoted?”

“I’m gay, too.”

His eyebrows shoot up once again.

I hurry to add more. “At least, I’ve known that I have an _ interest _ in guys since… Well, since the beginning of high school.”

“An ‘interest’ in guys?”

“Well, I’m not gay, per se.” I gulp. “I’m bi—bisexual.” 

Baz looks at me, lips turned into a confused frown. Suddenly, he throws his head back, laughing almost hysterically. I shift uncomfortably.

When he finally calms down, he apologizes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

I flush. “Well, I’m not exactly out….”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right.” He clears his throat, making sure to get my full attention. “You’re secret’s safe with me as long as you can keep mine safe, too.”

I relax. “Of course.”

“Right…” he trails off. “Where were we?”

“You’re dad, I think.” His face darkens. I rush in, adding, “But we don’t have to talk about him. What about her sister? You have one, right?”

His face lights up again. “Half-sister, yeah," he corrects me. "Mordelia.” And he’s off.

\--- --- ---

Surprisingly, a brief talk about sexuality serves as a brilliant icebreaker. Baz talks about Mordelia with ease—even going as far as mentioning a few embarrassing baby stories about her—before asking me about my own family.

As I run through my own family history—my mom’s death after childbirth, my dad leaving me when he realized he was a widower, Ebb adopting me when I was 11—Baz listens intently. He’s an excellent listener, as it turns out. He’ll frown, and smile, and even let out a breathy laugh every now and again. I’m thankful for it.

I can’t help but falling even more in love with him.

\--- --- ---

Before we know it, it’s 3:00, and we’re still talking. At this point, we’re just exchanging stories. Baz is casually laying down on his bed, with myself laid out on the carpeted floor. 

Right now Baz is finishing up a story about the time Mordelia incorrectly identified hockey. He’s lovely to listen to on a normal day, but especially when he’s talking about his family. 

“—and then Mordelia called it ‘ice tennis,' and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that hockey is actually not ‘ice tennis.’ But fuck was it cute,” he cackles uncontrollably.

Cute indeed, I think to myself, letting out my own breathy laugh. “Siblings are great, huh?”

He calms down before letting out a weak, “They are, Snow. They’re fantastic.”

After exchanging a few more stories, Baz gets up. “Well, it’s nearly 4:00,” he says, stretching. “Do you actually want to get some work done?”

Shit, I had nearly forgotten about that. “Yeah, yeah, of course we can.”

Baz takes my laptop—I must’ve left it next to my backpack last night—and hands it to me. “Let’s this thing done. We don’t have that much to do, do we?”

I take the laptop before shrugging. “I don't think so."

“Alright. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

\--- --- ---

I groan, attempting to blink the blurriness from the eyes.

“What?” I hear from above me. 

“I just deleted an entire block of text,” I mumble.

“It’s Google Docs, Snow,” Baz declares. “Just press ‘Undo.'”

I groan again, this time in a more joking manner than anything. “Too much work.”

He laughs. “Simon Snow is in my bedroom complaining about too much work? I must be going crazy.”

I smile, moving my mouse to press ‘Undo.’

We resume our respective assignments, falling into a blissful silence. 

At about 6:15, Baz pipes up. “I’m tired.” I glance over at him. He’s rubbing his eyes. “Do you want pizza? I’m famished.”

“But we’re almost done,” I say.

“That’s the point.”

I squint my eyes in confusion. “What’s the point?”

“We’re almost finished, so we can just resume after dinner. We only have a few slides left, so we'll just pick up where we left off.”

I scoff. “But what’s the point when we can take another, I don’t know, 20 minutes? 

He shrugs. “We could relax for a bit. Hang out. Capisce?” 

I blink at him stupidly.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'" He gets up, starting for the door. “Now, do you want pizza or not?”

I sit pliant for a second before scrambling up, trying to find my shoes. “Yeah, hold on.” I find them, grabbing them as I try and catch up to him. I stop at the door. “Wait.”

He stops as well. “What, Snow?”

“Why aren’t we just eating here? Don’t you have cooks?”

He shyly smiles. “Typically. But I think Daphne told them to stay at their homes. Roads are cleared for the most part, I hear, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, right?” He turns, walking down the stairway. “Besides, other than practice, I don’t get out much. I can show off my driving skills.”

“Humble.”

“Oh, shut it,” he bickers back. “I can be humble when I want to be.”

\--- --- ---

Once Baz gets the keys to his Mustang and uses Domino’s website to order everyone’s preferred pizza, we head out to the driveway.

I look at the Ford nervously. “Are you sure this is safe?”

Baz snorts. “Of course not. It’s 51 years old."

“You like to live dangerously, then.”

“No, I don’t,” he waves his hand, “I just appreciate cars.” He pauses while he yanks open his door. “And listen here, my friend”—he called me friend, holy fuck—"there is nothing, and I repeat, _ nothing _ better than a ‘68 Mustang.”

The engine revs, startling me. He cackles evilly.

“Get in, Snow. She doesn’t bite,” he says, all the while gnashing his teeth like a vampiric child. [1]

**[1]** **For you nerds out there, “vampiric” probably isn’t the term to use here. I just wanted to use it since the alternative—“vampire child”—is not as fun.**

\--- --- ---

Baz is a terrible driver. 

Well, no, he’s actually a great driver. Unfortunately, ‘great’ can translate to confident, and ‘confident’ is a one-word translation for “a sense someone feels that makes them rather reckless.”

In simple terms, he’s terrifying to drive with.

He’s been pushing himself to the limit the entire drive, too. He’s weaved around traffic, honked his horn, sped, and is currently chattering away while my knuckles are clenched around the door frame.

“This beaut was my mother’s,” he says. “Fiona managed to piece it together after years of rotting away in our old estate’s garage. Gave it to me as an early birthday present.” He pauses, chuckling. “Nicest thing she’s ever done for me.”

“Great,” I manage through clenched teeth. “That’s fantastic.”

He glances over at me. “Snow?”

“Hmm?” I reply, trying not to sound too tense.

Baz eases his foot onto the brake pedal, slowly moving the thin dial to be just below the speed limit. He takes his eyes off the road for a brief second. “You alright?”

“Y-yes.”

“_Fuck,_ I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “I didn’t know this made you nervous.”

“I never really told y—”

“No, no. I should’ve known. I should’ve asked, if anything.”

“It’s really fine.”

“Stop trying to play hero, Snow,” he bites back, albeit softly. (As softly as one could muster with a V8 rumbling in front of him, anyway.) “I’ll make sure to keep in under the speed limit, then.”

I look out towards the fading sky. ”Thank you,” I mumble.

“_Tu es plus que bienvenu, mon amour._” [2]

“Mmm?”

“Nothing, Simon.”

**[2] According to Google Translate, this translates to “You’re more than welcome, my love.” I wanted to add onto Simon’s obliviousness.**

\--- --- ---

We’re at Domino’s now, waiting at the table while our pizza is being prepared.

“Who’s paying?” I ask.

He looks at me, eyebrows perked up, “Who is who?”

“Are you using your own money or…?”

He lets out a nervous chuckle. “Technically, it’s not my money. I’m on an allowance,” he replies. “It’s not much, but it’s enough for a high school student.”

I kick my feet. “Oh.”

After a few quiet minutes pass, Baz perks up when he hears, “Pitch?”

There’s no one here but us, but I can’t help myself. “That’s you.”

Baz’s response is somehow more sarcastic than I thought possible. “Gee, really? I thought it would’ve been Imaginary Bob over there.”

I don’t have a comeback, so I just playfully kick at his leg.

He grunts. "Hey, leave the soccer star alone.”

As he gets up to get the pizza, I quickly remark with a cheeky “‘Humble,’ my ass,” thinking back to the bit he said before we had left.

Baz doesn’t respond immediately, so I assume he didn’t hear me. With nowhere to look, I shift my gaze towards him. 

He’s at the counter, paying for the pizza when he slips a hand behind his back. I focus on his hand—or his finger, rather. [3]

Huh. I guess he did hear me, after all. How utterly charming.

**[3] If you couldn't tell, Baz flips off Simon here. In a joking manner, of course.**

\--- --- ---

It’s almost 7:00 when we get back, just in time to catch a drizzle. Stupid spring weather, I think. (It's still a month away from spring, but whatever.)

Baz doesn’t seem to mind the weather, though. He turns off his car, whispering “Good-bye, sweet one” to his car, and scampers outside. He walks around the car, helping me with the car door while standing under the light rain. “After you, madam.”

“Fuck you.”

At first, I don’t hear a response. When I look back, however, Baz is just giving me a grin. 

I quickly turn my head around, trying to hide my embarrassing blush as I head up the path.

He does eventually catch up to me, thanks to me not being able to open the door with arms full with warm pizza boxes. 

Once we’re inside, Baz asks me for the pineapple pizza. “I’m the only one who likes it, anyway,” he justifies, taking the box before heading up to his bedroom.

I place the pizzas on the counter, making sure to grab a few slices for myself before heading upstairs.

\--- --- ---

We’re munching away when I ask, “So… What’re we going to do while we eat?”

Baz takes a second to respond, having to swallow down his pizza. “How about a movie? I can set up a small TV in here.”

“What movie then?”

“_The Lord of the Rings_, maybe?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Is this just an excuse to ogle at Orlando Bloom?” 

“No, I just like the movie.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He grins at me. (I love it when he grins at me.) “It’s true. And besides, if there was anyone I would want to gawk at, it would Gimli. That beard”—he lets out a sharp wolf whistle—“works wonders.”

I burst out laughing. “Christ, Baz,” I cackle. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I have my moments."

He stands and walks out, presumably going to find _ The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring _ from downstairs. (And to go get that TV he mentioned, I guess.) This leaves me alone in Baz’s colossal room.

_ Holy fuck_, I think to myself. This day has been quite fun—really, it’s been fun to hang out with Baz. (After all of these years, we had never been partners together; I guess teachers figured they shouldn’t put two of the smartest kids together or something.) I already liked his dry, sarcastic sense of humor, yet somehow I like it even more. His attitude is also brilliant—he seems to have a flair for the dramatic, yes, and can sometimes seem ignorant, but he really is a perfect blend of wit and cleverness and humility.

He deserves nothing more than the best. He’s too perfect for this world.

And yet, he seems to have enjoyed my company.

If I thought I was in love with him before—and I’m pretty damn sure I was—then I have all of the confirmation I needed now.

\--- --- ---

We’re more than 90 minutes into the movie before I catch Baz trying to hide his yawn. The pair of us are laying leisurely on the floor, so I have to sit up in order to look back at Baz’s alarm clock. 

“Baz,” I mumble.

He finishes his yawn before grunting, “Yeah?”

“You’re tired. Me too, honestly. We should wrap it up.”

“I’m not… not tired, Snow.”

“And Donald Trump is the queen of England,” I remark. “Let’s stop it after this scene, yeah?”

He grumbles.

“What was that?”

He sits up, grabbing for the remote. “I said ‘fine.'"

I hum. “Someone’s cranky.”

“Meh. I’m just tired.”

“Tired? I thought you weren’t tired, Baz.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Baz looks at me, cheeks painted with faint scarlet.

“Sorry,” I rush in, “I didn’t m—”

“Never knew you were a flirt, Snow,” Baz interrupts, lips upturning into a grin.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I quip.

Baz inches a bit closer. “Oh? You’ve told me quite a bit about yourself, I think.”

“Like what?” I ask, challenging him to reach back into that large memory bank of his.

“You opened up about your parents, for one,” he says, voice down to a gentle whisper. “You told me that your biggest regret was reading the entire _ Twilight _ series—”

“That’s more than a regret—”

“—yeah, yeah, whatever.” He pauses, now within foot of me. “You also told me that you like boys,” he adds.

I hold my breath, uttering out a small, “And girls.”

He smirks. “That’s not the point, Snow.” He’s inches away now.

“What is the point, then?”

He cocks his head, making sure I’m looking at him straight in the eyes as he moves his head forward. “The point, Simon, is I—”

There’s an abrupt knock on the door. We jump back from each other, startled, and distance ourselves further when the door is thrown open. 

In the doorway is a spitting image of Baz. _ Mordelia. _

“Baz, mom’s been calling you,” she says, oblivious to the tension quickly filling the air. “Says it’s important.” She leaves the door frame, leaving us to bask in our almost-kiss haze.

A heartbeat passes. Then another. And another. Finally, Baz clears his throat. “Well… I guess Daphne wants me,” he says, getting up. 

He’s out of his room in a couple seconds, but not before I hear a snarky, “The one time she knocks.”

I’ve settled back down on the floor, lost in thought when it clicks.

Baz nearly kissed me. I didn’t imagine that, right? I don’t think I did. One second we were talking, and the next, he was leaning in to kiss me. But the moment—if there even was a moment, at least—was ruined.

Fuck.

\--- --- ---

When Baz returns, I’ve queued up _ The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring _ again, fully prepared to complete the movie.

To my dismay, however, Baz mentions that it’s past 9:00, and we still need to wrap up the project. I quietly groan in response, turning off the small TV sat on his bedroom floor.

Over the next hour, we finally wrap up our presentation, adding the final touches before starting to rehearse our slideshow. It doesn’t take too long, though, and when we finish on our third way through, I call it a night.

I brush my teeth quickly, and return to the bedroom. Once I’m back in the room, Baz takes the cue, walking into his own ensuite to get ready for sleep.

\--- --- ---

I’m rudely awakened by the infuriatingly hot sun. Similarly to Thursday morning, I’m cool when I wake up. (I have an inkling why.)

Sure enough, once my brain becomes functional, I register a strong arm wrapped around me.

“Hello, Simon.”

I startle, realizing that I’m not the only person in bed who’s awake. “Oh. G-good morning, Baz.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, his arm briefly squeezes around my chest before moving away. I mentally groan, disappointed that this fantasy has to end.

I linger in Baz’s bed before I glance over at the clock. It’s 8:14, which means we have about 30 minutes until school starts. _ Shit_. 

I scramble, throwing off the covers as I search for my shoes and stuff. 

At first, I have trouble finding them, but Baz gets my attention by clearing his throat. When I look over, I realize that he’s holding my things—my pair of red Converse sneakers in the right hand, and my backpack on the left.

I grab them, thanking him before starting to put on my shoes.

“Snow?” He asks.

“What?” I reply, not bothering to look at him.

“You’re not wearing _ those _ to school.”

I look down at my clothes. “Why not?”

He raises an eyebrow before informing me, “Those are what, two days old? And if I recall correctly, you also slept in them.”

Oh. I didn’t even realize that. “These are the only things I brought. I wasn’t expecting a sleepover, you know.”

Baz grunts, and walks quickly to his dresser. He takes out a white-colored jersey and some dark blue jeans, studying the clothes before tossing them to me. I gracefully drop them. 

"Go change into these. They may be slightly big, but no one’ll care.”

I nod, bending down and gathering the fallen clothing before going into Baz’s bathroom. After I’ve shut the door, I hear Baz shout. “By the way, I’ll be in the car. Hurry.”

Once I change into Baz’s clothes—they are definitely too big—I grab my nearly dead phone, alerting Ebb that I’m alive and well. Then, picking up my things, I race outside to Baz and his Mustang.

\--- --- ---

As we reach campus around 8:41, I reject Baz’s offer to drop me off with a casual, “I’m fine. Besides, it would be nice not walking into school alone.” Thankfully, Baz just shrugs, and eventually parks into what I assume is his own spot.

We get out of the Mustang, and walk wordlessly to the school. 

Once we arrive to the lunchroom, we stop between a pair of tables. “See you fourth period, then, eh?” Baz asks.

“Yeah. Right.”

“Great. Have a good school day, Snow.”

“You too,” I grunt as we part ways.

I locate my usual table, slipping in next to Penny and her friends. 

“Simon?” I hear. It’s Penny, I realize, as she continues talking, “When were you going to tell me?”

I scrunch my face in confusion. “Tell you… what?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She says sarcastically, almost like it’s obvious. “Your relationship with Baz? When did you get together?”

“We aren’t together.”

Penny raises a single eyebrow, performing her best impression of Baz. “Simon, you two have walked in together what, twice this week?” Before I can interrupt her—to save my own dignity, of course—she adds, “You’re even wearing Baz’s old soccer jersey.”

I open my mouth in retort, but stop, taking a few moments to let her words sink in. I look at her, blinking before looking down at my shirt. Well, it certainly is a jersey. But I don’t know how people will be able to notice. 

As the bell rings, I voice this to Penny, who’s now getting ready to go to her first period.

She just looks at me. “Before you leave for class, just look at the back of your shirt,” she says carefully. With that, she turns around, making a beeline for the crowd of students rushing to get to class.

As I stand up myself, I wonder why Penny wanted me to look at the back of my shirt. I grab my backpack, but put it down for a second, trying my best to stretch my head over my shoulder. _Oh_. No wonder Penny was confused, I think, peering at the dark-lettered “PITCH” embedded into the fabric. 

I straighten my gaze, shouldering my backpack as I quickly start walking to class. _ Fuck_.

\--- --- ---

The rest of the day is painful. I wonder around school, trying to avoid people’s curious questions and averting my eyes away from stone-cold faces. I guess someone caught wind of me and Baz, for it seems that the new rumor is that we’re dating. And that rumor is everywhere, with the "evidence" printed on my back. Just my luck.

Luckily, by the time my third period rolls around, everyone has fizzled down, presumably realizing that I’m not interested in feeding the fire. Mostly everyone, anyway. My third period is World History, which means I have to deal Keris and Trixie.

Keris and Trixie are the most obnoxious—although sometimes the sweetest—lesbian couple out there. They’re not all that bad, but they do tend to talk about things too much for my liking. Unfortunately, they’re quite unavoidable because I sit between them.

To my dismay, they're talkative today. Curious, even. As the class settles in, they both turn to me with a pair of knowing, mischievous smiles etched on their faces. Oh no.

“I didn’t know you were gay, Simon,” Keris says. “Maybe I should’ve figured, but I never would've guessed.”

I open my mouth in response, but Trixie beats me to it. “I certainly wouldn’t have pegged you for the type to date Baz Pitch.”

I hear Keris hum in agreement beside me as I shift awkwardly. “I’m not… gay,” I mumble, desperately trying to disspell this conversation.

They look at me in confusion. “You’re not dating Baz, then?” Keris asks.

“No, ‘course not.”

“Then why are you wearing his jersey?” Trixie replies.

“We were working on a project Wednesday night,” I say, explaining myself, “but the weather forced me to stay at his house—”

Keris, always impatient, cuts in. “But why are you wearing his—”

“I’m getting to that, okay?” I sigh. “My clothes were, y’know, dirty, so he gave me some of his before we left this morning. He probably didn’t realize that he gave me his jersey.”

“Right,” Keris mutters. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” (They’re getting on my nerves a bit.)

“Simon,” Trixie begins, “people know their own wardrobe. Perhaps Baz giving you his jersey was a weird way of flirting. A hint, maybe.”

I scoff. “Whatever you say.”

The pair of them open their mouths to retaliate against my remark, but they’re cut off by the teacher. Serves them right, I think to myself, altering my attention to the front of the room.

For the rest of the period, Keris and Trixie repeatedly tried to talk to me, but I more or less shrugged them off. I know it's rude, but they were really pissing me off; it's bad enough being in the closet, and it felt as if they were pressuring me, even if they didn't mean to.

Regardless, when the bell finally rings, I bolt out the door, eager to remove myself from the couple. 

\--- --- ---

As I'm walking to English, I take the long route to think. I think about the rumor situation, like how Baz might take the prospect of people thinking we're together. Back at his house, he didn't seem too bothered by the gay jokes and awkward situations that we ended up in. 

Hell, we nearly kissed last night. At least, I think we nearly did. Even if that was my imagination, we did come out to each other. We even slept together. It wasn't sex, per se, but at what point does sleeping in the same bed—and waking up wrapped around each other—become weird?

In the grand scheme of things, I'm scared that this’ll be awkward. The chances of Baz hanging out with me after this are slim, but I don’t want those chances to be slimmer than him. (Ha.) Even if we don't end up together—as if, right?—I still want to be friends. I enjoyed myself when I was at Pitch Manor. Baz is just nice to hang out with, plain and simple.

At this point, I'm nearly to class, so I need to push these thoughts out of my head. I stop outside the door, and take a deep breath, allowing myself to set aside all of the events of the past few days. I walk inside.

\--- --- ---

As it turns out, I'm one of the last people to class. This isn't necessarily an uncommon occurrence, but I'm usually here earlier. I guess I took longer when I was thinking to myself.

Regardless, the class is a disaster. Everyone's huddled with their partners, swapping index cards—amateurs—and quickly reviewing their presentations. I manage my way through the 30-odd people clustered about, finally working my way to my seat.

I set down my stuff, pulling out my laptop before. Before I can find Baz, however, I feel a presence in front of me. "Ahem." I look up, and let out a (hopefully) mental squeal.

It's one of Baz's teammates. I know it's not Dev or Niall—something tells me that if Baz has came out to anyone, it's them—but I know he plays soccer due to the team jersey he's wearing. He's wearing a heavy scowl. "Yeah?" I mutter quietly.

Instead of answering, he turns to Baz, who's now settling into his own seat. "Baz? You're fucking boyfriend is in my seat."

Well… I guess I'm getting the whole "How will Baz take it" question answered right now.

He squints. "Pardon?

His teammate, Jacob, hardens his face. "I said your _ fucking boyfriend _ is sitting in my seat."

Under their gazes, I awkwardly stand up, shuffling awkwardly to my seat. 

By the time I turn my attention back to the pair of them, Baz is right up in Jacob's space. "He's not in your seat now." He clears his throat. "But I don't really like the way you said that."

"Said _ what_?"

"The way you said 'fucking boyfriend.'" Baz hardens his own gaze. "And do you, my fine Jacob, have a problem with that? A boyfriend?" 

I can feel my face heat up at that. (I know we're not together, but I can't help but noticing that he never said we weren't boyfriends.)

I swear Jacob gulps before answering. "I d-do actually."

Suddenly, Jacob is being pressed against Baz's desk, with Baz himself leaning over him. "You listen to me, you moron," he spits out. "I know that you're on the team, but that won't fucking save you. If I ever, _ ever _ hear you talk like that again…" he trails off, taking a second to calm down. 

I might be imagining it, but I swear Baz's eyes flicker to my own before he presses further. "You know Coach Mac doesn't stand for that shit; report this incident to him, I don't care. But even if you do, Jacob, I swear you'll get the worst of it."

With that, Baz backs up, releasing his grip on Jacob. As the pair separate, Ms. Possibelf walks in. "I heard some commotion." She finds Baz's eyes, focusing on him. "Baz?"

Baz, bless him, doesn't get a word in before Penny jumps in. "He was just ripping apart Jacob for bigotry."

Ms. Possibelf narrows her eyes at her. "Penelope—"

Gareth, tucked into the far corner of the room, pipes in. "She's right," he pauses, further explaining the situation. After a short ramble, Gareth wraps it up. "Baz wasn't having that sh—stuff at all, so he gave Jacob, uh, a talking to."

The class murmurs in agreement as I slouch in my seat.

After a second of pondering, Ms. Possibelf glances at my slouched form. "Mr. Snow, is this true?"

I slowly turn, only giving her the briefest nod. Thankfully, she doesn't press, and looks at Jacob.

"Jacob, whatever the case might be, you will explain yourself." Jacob moves to respond, but is quickly interrupted, "No, not to me. To Coach Mac. If it's necessary, I'll make sure to get the story straight from other students."

Jacob grumbles, taking a walk of shame out of the classroom. 

The class falls quiet, waiting for someone to break the ice. That honor goes to Ms. Possibelf. "All right. Now that's out of the way, who wants to go first?"

\--- --- ---

Two presentations later, Ms. Possibelf asks for another volunteer. Baz looks at me. "Do you want to go next?" He whispers.

I do my best to subtly shrug, trying my best to mouth, "I don't care."

He nods, and raises his hand. "We can go, Ms. Possibelf."

Ms. Possibelf looks down at her clipboard. "And you are with…?"

He smiles almost shyly. "Simon."

She confirms it as she looks at her clipboard. "Ah. Right, then. Boys," she motions towards the projector, "have at it."

\--- --- ---

For all of the nerves that I had, they disappeared once I got to the front of the room. Apparently, all it took was a blinding smile from Baz, and my butterflies were quelled.

Baz and I transitioned from speaking part of speaking part, and have little issues with saying our lines. Our presentation was organized, and filled with enough information to satisfy Ms. Possibelf. Overall, I think the presentation was great.

"And that is all," I say, taking a second to take in the scattered applause. I sigh, glancing at Baz before finding my seat. Whew, I think, that's it.

\--- --- ---

As the class bell rings, and I move to gather my things, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Baz's hand.

I look at him in question.

"Are you going to the soccer game tonight?"

"Maybe."

"You should come. It'll be fun."

"I'll try to be there, then."

He smiles. (I try not to read into that.) "Perfect. See you tonight, Snow." He walks out of the classroom, slightly bouncing as if to show a newfound sense of confidence.

Good for him, I guess.

\--- --- ---

After school, I hitch a ride with Penny, spending a few hours with her while waiting to head to the soccer game. It’s a tradition, and it allows the pair of us to relax for a bit. It’s nice.

We recap our past couple of days—we never really had the chance to talk, considering my project with Baz—and mess around for a little bit. Around 6:30, about half an hour until kickoff, Penny stops our conversation short, reminding me that we have a game to go do.

“Baz invited you, Simon. You can’t be there late,” she insists.

“He hardly invited me, Penny,” I mumble, heading outside to her Prius. “He just said I should be there.”

She waves her hand, saying, “Whatever. Same difference.”

“Stop getting my hopes up, Penny.”

“Never,” she says, laughing.

“Shove off,” I mutter.

When we get in the car, Penny pauses before inserting her keys into the ignition. “Simon,” she starts, speaking gently, “I swear I’m not trying to get your hopes up. He likes you, at least enough to be a friend if you want him to be.” She starts the car, looking at me. “I hope you know that.”

I grunt in acknowledgement, turning my attention to the window. “I know, Penny. I know.”

\--- --- ---

We arrive at about 6:50, just ten minutes to spare until the game starts. Penny leads the way as we look for seats. Luckily, there’s actually a few seats open at the front row, probably due to people realizing that their friends were seated elsewhere. 

Once we get settled, I try and find Baz. (Watching him practice is the second-best thing to do in these games; the best is watching him actually play.)

Right before I can ask Penny to help me locate Baz, I’m surprised when I hear a metal _ clang! _ in front of me. “What the fuck?” I try quietly shout. “What was that?”

Penny, bless her, somehow has managed to look more startled than I feel. “A rogue ball, I guess.” She glances to her side, lips upturned into a faint smirk, and her eyebrows quirk up. “Hey Simon?”

I grunt in question, mind still reeling from the sound.

“I found Baz.” Well, that gets my attention.

I look at her, only to find her pointing in front of me. I follow her finger, and let out a tiny squeak when I realize that Baz is standing right up against the bleachers’ railing. “Hello, Snow. Glad you could make it,” he pants. “Now, can you get my ball?”

“Oh, right, of course,” I look around me, finding a yellow and orange soccer ball. I pick it up, walking over to him. “Here you go.”

“_Merci._” [4]

As he turns to rush back onto the field, I reply. “_Bien sûr_.” [5]

He looks back before doing a double-take. In a very un-Baz-like manner, he squeaks. “You speak French?"

I shake my head. “Not really. Just things like ‘please’ and ‘thank you.' That’s about it.”

“_Thank fuck,_” he says under his breath.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Oh, uh, nothing. It’s nothing." He flashes his teeth with a smile. "Enjoy the game, Simon.”

**[4]** **If you didn’t know, this means “Thank you” in French.**

**[5]** **This means “Of course” in French.**

\--- --- ---

The game kicks off, with Baz—positioned as left striker—dribbling down the sideline. After roughly 30 seconds of maneuvering around the defense, Baz gives his teammate a pass, looking for a better opportunity. 

And before I know it, he’s found it. Once his teammate collected the pass, Baz had shot upfield, and, calling for the ball before receiving the pass and drilling it into the back of the net. Brilliant.

Throughout the first half, both offenses struggle to gain any momentum. Baz and Co. have a few moments, but miss the only two shots that come out of it. At the beginning of the second half, however, Lofton High School—a rival school located just a few miles away from Watford—ties the game. Well that sucks.

Time flies by, and soon there’s just a few minutes left in the game. 

Thinking they have nothing to lose, Lofton gets aggressive, trying to force a small counterattack. Understandably, the counterattack fails, leaving an opportunity for Watford to strike; unluckily for Lofton, Watford has a white-clad striker waiting in the wings. _ Baz._

As he gathers a pass, Baz rockets up the field, shaking a defender before putting on the jets to outrun another defenseman. Suddenly, the defenseman juts out his leg, tripping Baz as he enters the box. He falls, albeit gracefully, and pops up shortly after a sharp whistle pierces the air.

To my side, I hear Penny mumble. “What does that mean again?”

I shift, trying to get a better view of the goal before answering. “Uh, Baz was tripped in the box. That means he gets a penalty kick.”

Penny hums in acknowledgement, both of us now straining to make out Baz’s form. As I focus on him, I realize that Baz is jumping slightly, perhaps to hype himself up. Weird. (I don’t understand sports sometimes.)

“C’mon, Baz.” I mutter.

Suddenly, a whistle is heard, signifying the start of the play. It’s just Baz and Lofton’s goalie now. 

A second passes. A heartbeat, too. Then, Baz moves; following a slight hesitation, he jogs at the ball, cocking his leg back as he prepares to shoot.

When Baz shoots, there's an audible _ thump_, indicating a powerful kick. Sure enough, the shot is a line drive, and curves ever-so-slightly into the corner of the net. The goalie, may Jesus Christ bless him, never stood a chance. The whistle blows thrice after a few celebratory seconds, ending the game. Watford wins, 2-1. 

\--- --- ---

Once the on-field celebration ceases, with students grumbling as they’re escorted off the field, the players trudge back to their respective locker rooms. Penny and I—who remained civil, and stayed within the stands—linger behind, basking in the glory of the most-empty bleachers as we talk mindlessly.

A few minutes pass before I hear a notification coming from my phone. Oddly enough, it’s the sound that I rarely hear: a “Bohemian Rhapsody” rift, something I use exclusively for text messages.

I finish listening to Penny before pulling out my phone. I type in my passcode to check on my messages. “Oh.” 

“What is it?” Penny asks, trying to sneak a look.

“It’s a text message. From Baz.”

“That’s weird,” she mutters. “He should be celebrating, not texting you.”

“Yeah, I know.” I tap my screen, opening the full messaging app. “He says,” I read, “_Please stay for a few more minutes._” 

“Is that it?” Penny questions again, clearly confused.

My phone chimes once again. “Oh, uh… He said ‘_I want to talk to you, but I have to shower first. Just wait, please_.’”

“Siiimon,” she sings, “he wants to _ talk _ with yooouuu.”

“But about what?” I look at her. “What could he possibly want to talk about with me?”

“I don’t know,” Penny shrugs, “but I’m going to head out to the car. Let me know if anything happens.”

I scoff. “As if anything will happen,” I mumble.

\--- --- ---

At this point, I’ve moved to the field, leaning on the cold, damp bleacher railing as I wait for Baz. It’s not long before I start questioning if he really meant to text me. 

I sigh, pulling out my phone to check the time. It’s been more than a few minutes.

Just as I’m getting ready to leave, though, I hear my name. “Simon!”

I turn on my heel, finding the voice. As I expected, it’s Baz. “Mmph.”

He jogs over to me. “You actually waited?”

I kick at the cut grass. “Yeah, but I was about to leave,” I admit.

“Well, thanks for not leaving.”

I look at him curiously. “Why did you text me to stay for a bit?”

“Isn’t obvious?”

I shake my head, albeit a bit stubbornly. “Not really, no.”

He smiles at me, chuckling. “I thought it was fairly obvious, actually.” Baz pauses, as if thinking for a second. Or maybe to gather his courage. “I, uh, wanted to talk to you about… things.”

I narrow my eyes. “‘Things?’”

When Baz runs a hand through his damp hair, I realize that he’s nervous. (Why would he be nervous?) “Things like….”

I can’t help myself. “Like…?”

He lets out a rare stammer. “How I-I like you.”

I freeze, rendered completely speechless.

“I wanted to ask you out.”

“You like me?” I say, incredulously. He nods slowly. “And you waited until after you played a soccer game?”

He purses his lips. “Yep.”

“And waited until after you showered, and then asked me—through texts—to wait on the field?”

“So, is that a yes, or…?” Baz looks uncomfortable.

I let out a small, breathy laugh. “You’re asking me if I want to go out with you?” I say.

He clears his throat, perhaps in an attempt to gain his illustrious confidence. “Yes,” he confirms. He looks at me straight in the eye. “Simon Snow, will you go out with me?”

“That really shouldn’t be a question.”

He rolls his eyes, although with a faint smirk. “Stop being stubborn and deflecting the question. Will you go out with me?”

I take a deep breath. “_Yes._”

Baz’s face lights up. “Brilliant,” he exclaims, eyes twinkling a bit. “Let’s go.”

I look at him in confusion. “Now?”

“Yeah, why not? I showered, and it’s only what, like 9:30? We have time.”

I look at him for a second, ultimately deciding that I might as well agree. “Okay. Just, uh, let me text Penny first.” 

Now he’s the one that looks confused. “Why do you have to text Bunce?”

“Oh,” I chuckle nervously, “she said that I needed to text her if ‘anything happens.’ She’s my ride."

He hums. “Not anymore, she’s not.”

I stop texting Penny, looking up at him. “Where are you taking me?”

He lets out a grin—a devilish one. “Why, the most romantic place in town,” he says, eyebrows wiggling. “Whataburger.”

\--- --- ---

Baz and I sit at a table, playing footsie as we talk.

We chatter endlessly, each of us trying our best to learn more about one another. Even after we’re mostly finished, we delve into more personal matters, each of us spilling small jokes when the topic gets rough.

For instance, I learn about Baz’s scar on his neck, caused by a piece of shrapnel from his mother’s murder, and about his rough upbringing as a gay son. He insists that he doesn’t mind, but it certainly seems like he does. I don’t mention it, though.

Instead, I try and keep my additions to the conversation somewhat light—a few funny experiences here, a sob story about Lucy, my old golden retriever there—in an attempt to lighten his mood. And, you know, to make him happy. I think I succeeded, too.

Once we’ve exhausted most of our exchanges, we finish, and Baz walks to the register to pay. As he does so, I pull out my phone, telling Ebb what I was doing before following Baz.

Baz and I walk to his Mustang, each of us bearing small smiles on our faces.

\--- --- ---

“We’re here,” Baz says, parking his precious car in my driveway.

“Thanks for the ride home, and… the date, I guess,” I say, looking shyly at the floorboards. I’m reaching for the door when I remember to ask if Baz has anything planned for the weekend. 

When I turn my head to ask, I’m surprised to see Baz looking at me. It’s then that I realize that we’re really close. _ Really close._

“Simon,” he starts quietly. "Can I kiss you?”

It’s me that closes the distance.

Baz’s lips are soft, highlighted by the way he starts to gently hold me. Our mouths—ugh, that sounds weird—slide together, and it’s all just a bit wonderful.

After a minute of heaven, we break apart, panting slowly as we gently rest our foreheads together. 

“Well, that was nice,” I say.

He lets out a soft grin. “You want to do it again?”

Before I can respond, however, there’s a faint knock on Baz’s window. We both startle, settling in our seats as we look at the window. “Oh," I squeak, “that’s Ebb.”

Baz rolls down the window, slowly revealing a mischievous, all-knowing smile that’s printed on Ebb’s worn face.

“Hello, boys.”

I grumble, shielding my face when she continues. “Simon, is this the boy you said you liked?” I nod my head, slouching in my seat as I wait for the embarrassment to pass. It doesn’t. 

I hear Baz introduce himself, with Ebb letting out her own greeting. 

A few moments pass before I hear the window roll up. I lift my head, peering over at a flushed Baz. “She’s gone, Simon.”

I groan, nodding my acknowledgement. “I’m sorry about that.”

He laughs. “It’s nothing, Simon. Embarrassment's a part of life, right?"

“I guess,” I say, moving my hand for the door.

“Wait.”

I turn my head in his direction, looking at him in question. “Yes?”

“Do you want to go out again? Maybe sometime next week? I promise I’ll take you someplace better than Whataburger.”

“Of course, Baz.” I smile. “Anytime.”

\--- --- ---

Dating Baz Pitch is a dream come true. He can be a bit snarky at times, but he’s also lovely. He listens to my one-sided conversations, talks me through my school-related breakdowns, and even takes me on small, romantic dinners. (Well, as romantic as a high school senior can get, at least.)

We’ve been dating for a few months, now. It’s now the beginning of May, and Baz and I are just a week until school ends for us.

Well, I say school ends for us. Technically, it will, but college is the next step. Luckily, we’ve both been accepted into the same school. (It’s highly coincidental, but I’m not going to question it.)

I know college will be tough, both on us individually and on our relationship, but we can prosper. In the short amount of time that I’ve been his boyfriend, I’ve learned that I can trust Baz. I enjoy his company, too. 

We’ve been taking things slow in general. We haven’t gone any further than kissing yet, but that’s mostly on me. I can tell it bothers Baz on occasion, but he’s almost too considerate for his own good. At some point, I’ll repay him for that. I want to, but I’m just too nervous. While Baz makes me calm, I don’t want to get into that type of stuff until after we do other things.

Speaking of “other things,” we haven’t exchanged official love confessions to one another, either. But I think we’re close. We’ve had some romantic moments over the dates we’ve gone on—leaning into each other’s embrace, complimenting the other with a kiss on the cheek, calming the other when the words aren’t coming out right—and I feel more and more ready every day.

Someday, though, we’ll find the perfect time. 

Someday, we'll have a future.

And someday, in the words of the great Bob Marley, we'll carry on.

\--- --- ---

And we carry on, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I'm Kyuss, formerly known as an anonymous user who left annoyingly vague comments on works. I'm very much out of my element, but I decided to make an account and try my hand at fanfiction.
> 
> Before writing this, I swear I had a plan that didn’t include 15,020 words. It's just the more I wrote, the more I wanted to... well, continue writing. I hope it was enjoyable, though. I think this story went all over the place, and the ending might be a bit odd, but it's a start.
> 
> A comment would make my day, so if you have any tips, I do take constructive criticism. Any advice would help. (This is my first work, full stop, and I haven't written anything with dialogue since the 7th grade, so the mistakes are probably plentiful.) Also, if I need to clarify something, please point it out. I'll be more than happy to explain.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for taking the time out of your day to feed this lonely, gay-but-not-gay lad’s addiction. (I'll let you decide what my "addiction" entails.) And while you're here, please check out my other works. 
> 
> Cheers.


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